XII
I conclude these lectures on Dickens with a word or two casually uttered in conversation by a great man—possibly the greatest—of the generation that succeeded Dickens; himself a superb novelist, and a ruthless thinker for the good of his kind; a Russian, moreover, to whom the language alone of Sam Weller or of Mrs. Gamp must have presented difficulties well-nigh inconceivable by us. Some nineteen years ago a friend of mine visited Tolstoy at his home and, the talk falling upon Dickens, this is what Tolstoy said:
All his characters are my personal friends. I am constantly comparing them with living persons, and living persons with them. And what a spirit there was in all he wrote!
This having been reported to Swinburne, here is a part of Swinburne’s answer:
What a superb and crushing reply to the vulgar insults of such malignant boobies and poetasters as G. H. Lewes and Co. (too numerous a Co.!) is the witness of ... such a man among men!... After all, like will to like—genius will find out genius, and goodness will recognise goodness.
Tolstoy to Dickens.... That is how the tall ships, the grandees of literature, dip their flags and salute as they pass. Gentlemen, let us leave it at that!
THACKERAY (I)
I
Among many wise sayings left behind him by the late Sir Walter Raleigh—our Sir Walter and Oxford’s of whom his pupils there would say, “But Raleigh is a prince”—there haunts me as I begin to speak of Thackeray, a slow remark dropped as from an afterthought upon those combatants who are for ever extorting details of Shakespeare’s private life out of the Plays and the Sonnets, and those others (Browning, for example, and Matthew Arnold) who in revulsion have preached Shakespeare up for the grand impersonal artist who never unlocked his heart, who smiles down upon all questioning and is still
Out-topping knowledge.